Poem: The Changing Light

The changing light at San Francisco
                                      is none of your East Coast light
                                                        none of your
                                                                            pearly light of Paris
        The light of San Francisco
                                                    is a sea light
                                                                          an island light
        And the light of fog
                                          blanketing the hills
                                    drifting in at night
                                           through the Golden Gate
                                                                to lie on the city at dawn
        And then the halcyon late mornings
                    after the fog burns off
                            and the sun paints white houses
                                                            with the sea light of Greece
                                with sharp clean shadows
                                    making the town look like
                                        it had just been painted
But the wind comes up at four o’clock
                                                                sweeping the hills
And then the veil of light of early evening
And then another scrim
                                when the new night fog
                                                                        floats in
And in that vale of light
                                        the city drifts
                                                                anchorless upon the ocean

 

                                                Lawrence Ferlinghetti 

 

 

 

Poem: Rest

It's so late I could cut my lights
and drive the next fifty miles
of empty interstate
by starlight,
flying along in a dream,
countryside alive with shapes and shadows,
but exit ramps lined
with eighteen wheelers
and truckers sleeping in their cabs
make me consider pulling into a rest stop
and closing my eyes. I've done it before,
parking next to a family sleeping in a Chevy,
mom and dad up front, three kids in the back,
the windows slightly misted by the sleepers' breath.
But instead of resting, I'd smoke a cigarette,
play the radio low, and keep watch over
the wayfarers in the car next to me,
a strange paternal concern
and compassion for their well being
rising up inside me.
This was before
I had children of my own,
and had felt the sharp edge of love
and anxiety whenever I tiptoed
into darkened rooms of sleep
to study the small, peaceful faces
of my beloved darlings. Now,
the fatherly feelings are so strong
the snoring truckers are lucky
I'm not standing on the running board,
tapping on the window,
asking, Is everything okay?
But it is. Everything's fine.
The trucks are all together, sleeping
on the gravel shoulders of exit ramps,
and the crowded rest stop I'm driving by
is a perfect oasis in the moonlight.
The way I see it, I've got a second wind
and on the radio an all-night country station.
Nothing for me to do on this road
but drive and give thanks:
I'll be home by dawn.

                            Richard Jones 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Poem: 7 AM at the Western Wall

At 7 AM at the Wall the men
eddy and swirl, wearing their prayers
on their sleeves.
Angry old men with long beards
shout against the wall
as if it were a donkey
blocking the road.

At 7 AM at the Wall the women
rock and sway in heavy black shoes
moving their lips to silent music.
Tired old women kiss the wall
as if it were a long lost child
setting out again.

Answer us! demand the men
pounding the door to their King.

Speak to us, implore the women
whispering to their Lover
across a pillow of stone.

                    Jessica Rosenfeld 

 

 

 

 

 

Jerusalem

Common ground! Think of Jerusalem, the intersection where many trails met. A small village that became the birthplace for three religions - Judaism, Christianity and Islam. Why was this village so blessed? Because it provided a crossroads there different people met, different cultures, different civilizations could meet and find common ground. When people come together, flowers always flourish - the air is rich with the aroma of a new spring.

            Jesse Jackson, 1988 Democratic National Convention keynote address

 

 

 

 

 

What counts

It’s not the voting that’s democracy, it’s the counting.   

                               Tom Stoppard, Jumpers 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Election day

Our word “idiot” comes from the Greek name
        for the man who took no share in public matters.

                        Edith Hamilton, The Greek Way